


Flashback

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4690220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fix tag: Seeing a junkie going through withdrawal flashes Hutch back to his own ordeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashback

Written: 2001

First published in "By My Side 2" (2004)

  “Can you believe this assignment?! I didn’t think Dobey was _that_ mad.” 

  Ken Hutchinson tried very hard not to roll his eyes at his partner. “What did you expect? I think he would’ve let the snack bar thing slide, but how did you think he’d react when people started calling him about their stopped-up toilets?” The cards they’d printed offering various services and Dobey’s phone extension had been an inspired idea but one perhaps milked a little too long. 

  Dave Starsky was clearly tempted to smile. “‘Bout like he did. But what I’d love to know is, who ratted on us bein’ behind it?” 

  “‘Be sure your sin will find you out,’” Hutch quoted airily.

  “What’s that from?”

  “The Bible. Wouldn’t hurt you to read it more.” He gave Starsky a smug smile.

  Starsky’s expression did nothing to diminish it. 

  The fact was, Hutch didn’t particularly mind the assignment. True, going around to known drug houses to try to find a junkie murder suspect was definitely punishment duty for the prank they’d played on their boss. But it still beat doing paperwork, and the company made all the difference. He’d missed Starsky that last week as his partner had taken it upon himself to dry out Sharman, an old childhood classmate. The fact that she’d been a witness and that Starsky had broken several rules to take her in, thus jeopardizing both their careers, was something Hutch tried not to think about too much. Starsky wouldn’t have been the man Hutch knew if he hadn’t risked everything for an old acquaintance. He’d done at least as much for Hutch too many times before to count, not the least of which was going into hiding with his partner while Hutch went through his own forced withdrawal.

  Hutch’s smile slipped at the reminder. Why think of that now? The memory was still an acutely bitter one, despite its vagueness. The mind protected itself from remembering that kind of pain, but still, with the raw horror of what had happened to him and the bits of memories, he shied away from dwelling on any of it too long. Only random reminders cropped up now and then that he was not as unsoiled as he liked to pretend. As if he needed to be reminded.

  Starsky launched into some description of a new TV show he’d caught the evening before, and Hutch forced his attention to the harmless topic. He refused to brood about the past anymore. 

  They were already pulling up in front of their next stop, anyway, and Hutch got out of the car with a sigh of relief. The day was a pleasant one, hazy with L.A.’s usual smog but uncommonly warm for the end of February. Spring would be arriving soon, and he was very ready for it. Maybe he’d even get to planting some flowers around the cottage that year.

  The abandoned apartment building was a contrast to the nice weather, dark and decaying. The red brick was soot-stained from the once-active factories around it, and windows were broken or covered with boards. A sizable gap had been forced in the planks covering one of the doors, and Hutch ducked down to follow his partner inside.

  The interior wasn’t more promising. Dim sunlight couldn’t chase away the gloom that hung heavy in the air, nor did any breeze make it in to stir up the smells of human waste and marijuana smoke and dust that seemed to choke the atmosphere. Hutch set his jaw, giving Starsky a glance. Drug houses were all very similar, but only those who lived their hollow lives inside those walls ever seemed to get used to them. 

  Starsky jerked his head one way and Hutch nodded. Splitting up would let them cover more ground and get out of there faster, and he was all for that. Watching Starsky head off in the direction he’d indicated, Hutch moved the opposite way. 

  The doors all stood open, no such thing as privacy there. Each room held among the piles of trash a few scattered bits of broken furniture and dusty mattresses, some last vestiges of humanity. And among them lounged the addicts, staring into space, rocking, furtively smoking or injecting their various poisons. 

  The lump in Hutch’s throat grew as he walked the bare hallway, searching faces for the one they were looking for but trying not to look too closely. Each house they went to drove the reminders deeper into his mind. He’d been forced to taste that life, if you could call it a life, a thought that still made him shudder with revulsion at himself. But these people had chosen it, one way or another--no one had tied them up and injected them against their will. They had little chance for freedom now, but once... And there were still those who were able to leave the life behind, those who wanted it hard enough and tried hard enough. 

  It seemed an easy choice now, Hutch physically sickened by the sight of the wasted addicts. But just a few short months before, he’d have given all he owned for one needle of the stuff. It was only by the grace of God, and his partner’s stubborn love, that he wasn’t one of those lost souls in the rooms he passed. 

  Flinching, Hutch picked up his steps. They couldn’t get out of there soon enough to suit him. 

  Only a few more rooms to go, then he could go back and find his partner. His nerves were already screaming at him to do so. It was too dark and hopeless there, too familiar...

  He stopped suddenly at one door, gaze riveted inside.

  All the room contained was one crate with a candle and the scattered remnants of drug paraphernalia on it, and a dirty blanket on the floor. And on the blanket writhed a kid in full withdrawal. The body was still late teens or young twenties, but the face was far older, and it wouldn’t take long for the rest of him to catch up. He was curled up on the floor, groaning as he tried to quell the pain inside, sweat dripping from his blond hair into his face and eyes. Even as Hutch watched, the boy rolled over and threw up, the smell almost inseparable from the stench already sticking to the air. 

  Hutch’s hand automatically went to his own stomach. It had felt like it was full of needles, he could remember, and no position could keep them from jabbing him, threatening to pierce right through. He could taste the nausea, even a sip of coffee forcing it into horrible contractions. He hadn’t been able to stop throwing up, while Starsky either hauled him to the bathroom in time or cleaned up after him. Hutch hunched at the memory, faint and sick. 

  The addict on the floor was shaking, close to having his teeth rattled right out of his head, and a tremor went through Hutch’s own body. He hadn’t been able to sit still, driven by some unsatisfied demon inside him to prowl the room, the confines of his cage, even when he was shaking so badly that he nearly fell over. Each violent shiver had brought its own acute pain as hurting muscles cramped and spasmed, but he’d been helpless to stop it. Starsky had finally held on to him to keep him from shaking apart in agony. He could feel the trembling even now, and hugged himself harder to try to still it. 

  His movement drew the attention of the wasted figure in bed, and the kid reached out one hand for him. No, not for him, for what the young addict wanted--needed--and hoped Hutch would give. “Help me, p-please,” came the stuttering request. 

  Hutch stared blankly. He was so cold--why was he so cold?

  Monk’s words had been relentless, questions about who and where that Hutch couldn’t make out. His pleas for help were ignored or jeered. 

  ...and then he’d been running, his stomach threatening to shred from the movement, his vision warped and his balance gone. Soon, the threat he was running away from became less awful than the anguish inside him and he’d finally fallen to the ground...

  ...but even though he’d begged, crawled on the floor, there was no reprieve. The laughing men had just shoved him away...

  ...and Starsky had gathered him up, trying to soothe the demon that clawed inside him. Starsky could help, and Hutch had pleaded until his voice was hoarse, until Starsky was in tears...

  ...while the fear threatened to swallow him whole and he didn’t know anything else, couldn’t see anything beyond it. Starsky couldn’t, or wouldn’t help, but didn’t he see that Hutch was going crazy? Oh, God, if only he could stop for a minute, sleep, just for a minute to clear his head...

  ...but hands were grabbing at him again, and even though he knew they’d bring blessed relief, he couldn’t take it anymore. It was killing him--didn’t they see it was killing him?! He kicked out against it, arms flailing, anything to get away from the hands that were pinning him down, restraining him when he had to _go_...

  “HUTCH! Would you ta--”

  He wouldn’t do it again. He couldn’t. He’d rather die, and a sob of helpless anger broke out before he could stop it.

  “Don’t, Hutch. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay, just calm down.”

  It wasn’t their voice--that was Starsky. He slowed, confused. When had Starsky gotten there? And where was Monk and--

  “Easy, buddy. It’s okay now, I’ve gotcha. Hutch? Come back to me, partner.” 

  Hutch blinked, the bright light and shadowy figures re-forming into dark walls and long, empty hallway. A doorway to one side opened into a room with an insensate, trembling figure curled on a blanket. And Hutch himself was sitting on the floor, wrapped tightly in his partner’s arms. He could feel Starsky’s heart thudding rapidly behind him, soft curls brushing the side of his face and a scratchy cheek against his own. 

  “Hutch? You with me?”

  His throat felt raw, unused or overused as he croaked out a bewildered, “Starsk?”

  The arms around him relaxed but he didn’t, not even when Starsky shifted to crouch in front of him instead of behind him. Brilliant blue eyes assessed him, calm and concerned. “You okay?” 

  “I think...” He was about to ask what happened when another glance into the room off the hallway brought it all back in a vivid rush. The humiliation and violation at the hands of Forest’s men. Fleeing for his life while in exquisite pain. Starsky’s sudden appearance, and then endless hours of vomiting and the runs and crashing around the room, begging Starsky and threatening him like some mindless animal.

  And now... Hutch’s horrified mind put the pieces together: both of them on the floor, the red scratch marks on Starsky’s hands, the tender worry in his friend’s eyes. And with a stricken look at the brunet, he scrambled to his feet and fled. 

  The roof was shrinking, the walls closing together as he stumbled through them, ignoring Starsky’s call behind him. One more second and he’d suffocate, but even as Hutch burst out the door, the urge didn’t diminish and he flung himself around the corner of the building. And in the shelter of the squalid, trash-strewn alley, his legs buckled and he landed on his hands and knees, already helplessly heaving up everything his stomach could force out. 

  And damning himself for thinking he’d left the nightmare behind him. 

  Starsky scrambled to his feet, but not quick enough to keep from losing sight of his racing partner. Cursing Forest with every misfortune he could think of, Starsky ran after Hutch. If what he thought happened had happened, this was definitely not a good time for the blond to be alone. 

  A muffled cry from his partner had summoned him scant minutes before, and he’d dashed down the hallway with much the same speed as now to find Hutch. The sight of the trembling blond, arms wrapped around his stomach, staring sightlessly ahead had scared him badly. He’d feared the worst, some kind of injury or sudden serious illness. But while covering those last few feet, Starsky started making out the disconnected mutters and saw the wasted human form in the room Hutch was staring right through, and he knew with sudden clarity what was going on. People didn’t have flashbacks from heroin, not as they did with LSD use, but those who underwent a major trauma could. If Hutch’s kidnapping, torture, and withdrawal didn’t qualify for that, nothing did, and it looked like his partner had been thrust in over his head into the memory. 

  Starsky had tried the cautious approach, not wanting to rattle Hutch any further than he already was. He hadn’t counted on the strength of the nightmare Hutch was caught in. A moment later, Starsky had found himself using all his skill and strength to contain his struggling partner. No doubt he’d provided the arms to the faces and voices in Hutch’s flashback, and the blond was fighting hard to escape. Starsky didn’t know whether to bless or curse that stubborn streak. 

  Hutch had come out of it slowly, like a dreamer after a long sleep, and Starsky hadn’t been sure he was all the way back until those horrified blue eyes had really met his. Starsky’s scared relief had been short-lived; Hutch took off the next moment. Starsky could only imagine the direction his partner’s thoughts had taken, what memories had been revived, and if the idiot thought he’d be facing them alone, Starsky had a few bits of common sense to knock into that blond head.

  Out the door, he pulled up for a second, momentarily lost as to which way to turn. Until the unmistakable sounds of someone being sick hurried Starsky around the closest corner of the building, and nearly tripped him over the kneeling form of his partner. 

  Grimacing at the reaction, not to mention the place Hutch had chosen to have it, he crouched next to his friend and hooked one arm around the heaving ribs. The other hand cupped the sagging forehead. It was a position too familiar from the hours spent in the room above Huggy’s bar, purging Hutch’s system of the heroin. If only the memories would have been as easy to get rid of.

  Hutch didn’t even seem to notice him at first, then slowly the weight Starsky supported grew heavier. Fatigue, or acceptance of his help? Starsky had a feeling it was the former, especially when it was only his support that kept Hutch from pitching face-forward as the retching finally ended. 

  Starsky immediately adjusted, levering Hutch back up onto his knees, then with a frown at the filthy wall beside them, toward his own hip and chest to lean against while recovering. “I’m here, I gotcha,” he promised, feeling around in Hutch’s pocket for the ever-present handkerchief and wiping the lax mouth with it. His material was getting old--he’d said the same thing inside the building, for all the good it had done. “Take it easy, you’re okay.” 

  Hutch was still shaking, and Starsky would have offered his jacket if that wouldn’t have required moving both of them more than he was able at the moment. Instead, he hugged Hutch one-handedly to him, his arm stretched across the blond’s back and his hand rubbing up and down the quaking arm. 

  Hutch wasn’t resisting, but neither was he improving. A quick peek showed the usually lively azure eyes to be dull and focused elsewhere. No doubt inside his mind and memories.

  That wasn’t a place Starsky wanted his partner to go without him, either. 

  “It’s okay, Hutch, just a flashback. Happens sometimes, but it’s over now.” 

  Hutch’s voice was as distant as his gaze. “No, it’s not. Each time I think it’s gone...”

  Starsky didn’t know if he was madder at Forest or sadder for the bereftness of that tone. “The idea isn’t to get rid of it, Blintz. You just have t’find a way to live with it.”

  “How can you say that? After what you had to put up with, what you saw me do?” But the words had no spirit. 

  “Hey, did I ever complain?” Starsky asked gently.

  “You should have.” He couldn’t tell if it was sorrow or shame in Hutch’s eyes--the man never looked at him long enough. “How can you even stand to... I mean, what if...?” 

  Starsky’s smile was mournful. “Hey, that’s my game, remember?”

  The lean, trembling body stirred, and even though it might have been better for them both to stay a little longer, Starsky reluctantly let go. Hutch stood up slowly, the back of one hand rubbing uncertainly at his jaw as he used the other to prop him up against the wall. And his eyes were anywhere but on Starsky. “I’m ready t’go home.” 

  “Okay,” Starsky answered slowly. Hutch pulled back from the one hand Starsky extended toward him, and he dropped it. Now was not the time to push. “I’ll take you to your place and tell Dobey you weren’t feelin’ well.”

  “Fine.” The Hutchinson armor, somewhat battered from the past few years and especially the most recent few months, was back in place as he headed haltingly for the car, not even attempting to hold his chin high. 

  Starsky just followed, shaking his head. Hutch had never seemed to learn that armor couldn’t hide him from someone who saw him with the heart rather than the eyes. In fact, Hutch had been the one who’d taught him how to do that. It was his partner who wasn’t reading Starsky this time. 

  Scratch that--Hutch probably knew Starsky didn’t hold against him what had happened, what a mind churning through withdrawal had made him do. The knowledge that Starsky didn’t think less of him for what he’d seen, together with hazy memories at best of the whole ordeal, had allowed Hutch to put the whole mess behind him and eventually go on. But now, Starsky glanced at the drug house with loathing, Hutch had been forced to face his horrible violation, the trauma to the body and the spirit, as well as that Starsky had seen it all, and it had brought them right back to square one. Even worse than that. The depressed and hurting man Starsky tended those first several weeks after Forest’s abduction, had never had the shame and...desolation in his eyes the hunched figure next to him in the car did. His gaze was trapped in some scene inside him, no doubt playing the memory of his torture and debasement over and over again. And probably not looking at Starsky for fear the brunet was doing the same thing, not wanting to see the revulsion that appeared on his face. After all, how could someone who’d seen him as Starsky had, look at him the same again? 

  Starsky gave a frustrated sigh. Truth be told, he hadn’t looked at Hutch the same again, but not out of any kind of misplaced disgust. The fact was he was a little awed by his friend, for having survived the cruelty, for having escaped, for having gone through what he had in Huggy’s room and come out the other side unembittered and as gentle as ever. If anything, it had been with renewed respect and affectionate admiration that Starsky had regarded his partner after that. 

  If only Hutch were picking up on any of it. But it was hard to notice anything when you’d pulled into yourself to nurse some torn-open wounds. 

  Emotional workouts were as exhausting as physical ones. It was still morning, only the second day of their four-day rotation, but Hutch was blinking dully next to him as Starsky gave him a quiet glance. The mind also protected itself from overload with sleep. The sooner he got Hutch home and hopefully sacked out, the sooner his partner would be ready to face some of his past, this time through Starsky’s eyes. He’d make his friend see his side, willing or no. 

  They pulled up to the cottage, and Starsky killed the motor. Hutch didn’t hesitate, getting out of the car and trudging toward the door as if only iron determination kept him going. He didn’t seem to notice or care that Starsky followed. 

  Inside, he merely dropped on the sofa. Starsky stopped behind him, his gaze wandering the warm room once before returning to the blond head in front of him. “Can I get ya anything before I go?”

  A subdued, “No.”

  “I’ll call Dobey from the car.” 

  A single nod.

  “I’ll be back after I’ve finished checkin’ the list.” Although one potential addict suspect seemed awfully unimportant at the moment. 

  “You should take back-up,” Hutch said lifelessly.

  “I won’t do anything dumb.” Starsky paused, stepping forward to rest his hand on one of the drooping shoulders. “It’ll get better, Hutch--I promise.” 

  No answer, and Starsky pursed his lips before starting to move back toward the door. He barely caught the whispered, “I hope so” as he reached the open doorway. 

  Starsky stopped and turned. “I still love ya, ya big lug, you better know that. This hasn’t changed anything.” 

  Maybe he saw the shoulders rise in a momentary laugh, he wasn’t sure. But Starsky was still unhappy as he left.

  It wasn’t fair, he mused as he continued checking the buildings on their list. Hutch was tough as nails, hardly a pushover cop. Starsky sure wouldn’t have wanted to mess with the man if they’d been on different sides of the law. But there was still an idealistic core to him that was who he really was, that preferred helping the innocent rather than punishing the guilty, that thrived on the just and restorative and intellectual aspects of their job rather than the punitive and vengeful. The badge wasn’t a power trip to the blond like it was to some cops Starsky knew, but rather a license to protect and serve. And Hutch’s heart was that of a musician and botanist rather than an enforcer. Forest had polluted it by forcing all that ugliness into it through a syringe, and then made Hutch think it had come from inside him. But didn’t Hutch know the real proof of what kind of man he was had showed itself in his never laying a hand on Starsky during those long, dark hours, even when he trashed every single other thing in the room? 

  It just wasn’t fair. 

  And yet, as Starsky went from one hellhole to another, vivid reminders of the kind of life his partner had been in for if he hadn’t been able to break the heroin’s hold, he had to think they’d also been so very fortunate. Hutch _had_ escaped, against all odds, in the face of almost certain death. They had made it through the ugly withdrawal and Hutch was now completely clean and back on duty. Most of the time, it was like nothing ever happened, even though the nightmares had haunted Starsky’s dreams for some time, more viciously even than Hutch’s with the blond’s vague memories. Both of them had needed healing. 

  And now, the wound was back. Starsky couldn’t wait to return to Venice, checking the last few addresses with impatience. Almost to his relief, the suspect was nowhere to be found, and going off the clock a little early, he turned back west. Dobey had accepted without protest that Hutch wasn’t feeling well, and no doubt wouldn’t be surprised if Starsky didn’t work his full shift, either. As for the next day...he’d have to see how that one went first. 

  A brief stop at the store on the way, and Starsky was pulling up in front of the dark, silent cottage before long. Grabbing the bag off the seat beside him, he jogged up the walk and then quietly unlocked the door and went inside. 

  The shadows were already beginning to stretch inside the living room, the short February day drawing to a close. The couch held no sign of occupancy, but a searching glance around the room discovered a lanky body curled on the bed in the far corner of the room, facing away from Starsky. Hutch had only shed his shoes, holster, and jacket, and was lying on top of the covers instead of under them, but Starsky wasn’t being picky. At least the man was getting some sleep. 

  Starsky only turned on the small light in the kitchen, just enough to see by as he went to work. Hutch had once cooked him his favorite dinner, after Helen had died, to cheer him up. And it had worked, too. Well, Hutch wasn’t the only one who knew his way around a kitchen when he wanted to, or who could call his partner’s mom to find out what meal he liked best. Starsky had worried it would be something complicated, like those creep suzys Hutch loved the last time they’d gone out someplace fancy on a double-date, as befitting his partner’s somewhat upper class background. To his surprise, Mrs. Hutchinson had confided that her health-food-nut son’s favorite meal was, in fact, chicken pot pie. Starsky could do that. Besides, it sounded like ideal comfort food. He wished he’d thought of asking Hutch’s mom when Hutch was first recovering from Forest’s attack. 

  It took some time to cook the chicken, make dough, and assemble the casserole, but finally Starsky slid it into the oven. Half-an-hour and lunch/dinner would be ready, though the smell would probably wake Hutch before that. And Starsky still hadn’t quite figured out what to say. He rarely had to explain himself to his partner anymore, so what magic words was he supposed to come up with when their natural communication had already failed? 

  And yet he had to try. With his partner, he always did.  

  It was almost selfish to love somebody like he did Hutch, knowing that they cared about you and would do anything for you just as willingly as you would for them. God knew, Starsky needed a lot. But the alive joy in him that seemed to depend on the quiet joy he saw in those pale blue eyes was something he’d gone far past trying to explain or repay. At some point, you just _did_ because the other person needed you to. That was love. And Starsky couldn’t help but believe that was far stronger than any of Forest’s liquid magic. He would have staked his life on it. With Hutch’s life on the line, he already had, in a way. And Starsky had no doubt it would turn out in their favor.

  Somehow. 

  He wasn’t sure what woke him. One minute he was asleep and dreaming about floating, leaving everything and everyone behind. And the next he was fully awake and silently watching Starsky’s back as his partner puttered in the kitchen, doing who-knew-what.  

  The memories were...confusing. Hutch already couldn’t remember much of the world his mind had fallen back to in that drug house, the resurrected nightmare. But what was crystal clear from the moment he roused was the awareness that it had been horrible, worse than his imagination could fathom, and that Starsky had seen it all. 

  There were a few sides to him he would have liked to keep from his partner.

  Hutch had known, of course, what withdrawal entailed, and yet somehow had assumed his had gone easier. After all, he wasn’t addicted, right? He was just coming off a string of highs. That was bound to be a comparative cake-walk. 

  But no such delusions remained now, not after that afternoon. He remembered at least that much, and doubted he’d ever be able to forget it. How he was supposed to ever again look in the face the man who had washed his own vomit off him, held him steady on the toilet while his system rejected everything in him, witnessed his going off the deep end and then been attacked and threatened for his trouble? Starsky hadn’t seemed to look at him any differently after, but...how could he not?  

  And how could Hutch live with that, or the knowledge Forest had violated his mind and body to lead him to that? How could all his carefully protected beliefs of himself turn out to be on such shaky ground? 

  Hutch wished Starsky weren’t there, wished he could be anywhere else but lying on that bed, wished even that he could turn away and shut out the unwelcome reminder of his shame. But all he could do was lie there and watch. 

  Starsky put something in the oven, dusted his hands on his jeans, and stood, turning around as he did. And their eyes met. 

  Starsky didn’t move for a moment, then reached deliberately behind him to snap the kitchen light off. The dull lighting was easier on Hutch’s eyes and he stopped the squinting he hadn’t even noticed. That seemed to be the desired result. With a quiet smile, Starsky skirted the half-wall of the kitchen, picking up a kitchen chair with one hand as he did, and sat down backwards on it beside the bed, his eyes never leaving the face of his friend. 

  “You have a good nap?”

  “I’m feeling a little more rational, if that’s what you mean.” His voice was dry with more than just recent sleep. 

  Starsky’s grin grew a fraction at one corner. “That’s a start.” 

  “Yeah.” Hutch took a breath and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Try about what happened. About how I was a basket case and threatened you a-and made a mess...” His hand had rolled into a fist on the bed beside him.

  “You weren’t a basket case and you _never_ threatened me,” Starsky corrected mildly. “Maybe you weren’t your usual charming self, but you never even came close to threatening me. No matter how upset you were, Hutch, no matter how hard it got, you kept it under control.”

  “Yeah, real controlled. I tore the room apart.” 

  Starsky leaned a little bit forward, over the back of the chair. “I’ve seen a lot worse on the street and so have you. You know that stuff can completely take over, but you fought it, and you won. If anything, I’m proud of you. You heard me,” he asserted at Hutch’s incredulous look. “Not a lot of people coulda gone through what you did and not let it beat them. That was all you, buddy-boy.”

  Hutch flinched, the words just hammering home his deficiencies, his utter helplessness in that situation. The bones in his fingers felt like they’d crack from the strain of clenching so hard. “Me? Who cleaned up after me and kept me from going crazy?”

  Another slight smile. “Okay, so maybe we’re stronger together. That ain’t a big revelation anymore, Hutch.”

  Trust Starsky to downplay it. The brunet boasted about all manner of minor achievements and, of course, that stupid car, but was modest to the extreme when it was about his helping others. Hutch wished he could remember what had happened, what he had subjected his friend to...and then was selfishly relieved he couldn’t. “It was bad, wasn’t it?” Hutch softly asked. 

  Starsky blinked. “What do you--” His face changed, awareness arriving, “It’s gone again?”

  Hutch shrugged almost languorously. “Kind of faded now. I remember the memories were bad.” A fleeting sidelong glance at Starsky. “I remember I put you through hell.”

  Starsky unexpectedly laughed, and Hutch was wounded by the reaction--until he heard the words that followed. “Is that what’s botherin’ you? Listen,” and he reached forward to curl his hand around Hutch’s fist. “By the time you turned up, you’d been gone four days. How many missing persons turn up alive after four days, huh? Not a lot. I was startin’ to think about checking morgues.” He held on tighter, his stare not allowing Hutch to turn away. Apparently a few demons of Starsky’s own had been coaxed into the light. “Then you showed up. I’d’ve given anything for you not to have gone through what you did, Hutch, but if you think a little bad temper and mess would’ve turned me off when I was so glad you were alive, I’d say you’re still not thinkin’ too straight.” 

  Hutch’s death grip loosened a fraction under those warm, stroking fingers, because he recognized the sentiment with abrupt clarity. It had been exactly the same way he’d felt in the back room of Giovanni’s restaurant as his partner had sat propped against the sofa, his bleeding shoulder wrapped in a garish tablecloth, gunmen keeping them hostage just outside the room. Starsky had apologized for making a stupid joke at Hutch’s expense, and that quiet recant had taken more out of Hutch than the whole rest of the ordeal put together. As if anything else mattered at all besides Starsky staying alive and talking. And Hutch would have literally done anything to keep his partner that way, and considered it a small and willingly paid price. 

  But the cost had been too high this time. As much as Hutch wanted to wrap his partner’s acceptance and, God help him, love around him to ward off the rest of the ugly truth, it was still there. Even Starsky couldn’t change that.

  He had to swallow before he managed the confession. “I think I know a little bit what rape feels like now, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, eyes watering.

  Starsky nodded once as he closed his eyes for a moment. From his expression, his partner had already made that connection before, himself. “I know,” he said.

  “How am I supposed to live with this?” Hutch asked, choked.

  “Talk about it. Talk to Berrimen.”

  The department shrink. “He’ll report it--he has to.”

  “It’s confidential, but okay, so who else is there?”

  _Who else did you tell?_ he was asking. Hutch cringed. Didn’t Starsky realize he would have rather died than share that skeleton with anyone? 

  His partner seemed to think of something. “You ever tell your folks?” 

  Hutch froze. His parents--yeah, sure. Running home and calling his parents to tell them their son had fallen off the righteousness wagon in a major way had been his very first thought. Even if they would have understood, which he couldn’t believe, they’d always remember it and worry about it. His relationship with his parents was far from perfect, but at least it was one thing still unsullied by his job. “What do you think?” Hutch said with anger he didn’t truly feel, trying to pull away.

  But Starsky wouldn’t let go, his eyes just becoming more sympathetic. “I think your parents are better people than you give ‘em credit for sometimes. I know your mom would understand, anyway.” 

  Hutch’s jaw was growing hard. His mother would be devastated, and his father... 

  Starsky dropped the matter and said with a great deal of kindness, “Then talk to me. What d’ya think I’m here for, ‘cause my place burned down or something?”

  Hutch laughed without intending to, caught off guard yet again by his partner’s twisted sense of humor. Life had been so much darker before Starsky had entered it. And as dark as their job could get, he desperately needed his partner’s lightness. Right now it felt like his sanity depended on it. Hutch rubbed at his face and eyes with his free hand. No tears that day, though if they were needed and someday had to come, he had no doubt Starsky would be ready then, too. “You make it sound simple.”

  Starsky shook his head, a little wistful. “You know better than that. You’re gonna have to accept it happened and go on, and that’s not easy to do, even with Forest and his gang in prison. But you talk about it enough times and it starts gettin’ easier.” 

  “And, of course, you won’t get tired of hearing it.” 

  “No more than you did of hearing about how scared I was at Giovanni’s, or listening to me goin’ on about Sharman.” 

  It was a reminder he could have done without just then. It still stung a little how quickly his partner had seemed willing to ditch his career--their career--for a girl he hardly knew. The question slipped out before Hutch realized it. “Was she worth it?”

  Starsky smiled. “Was Kiko?” Hutch’s “little brother,” who’d temporarily decided cops weren’t cool, had seemed an equally lost cause to Starsky, but one Hutch had still found worth fighting for. Maybe they were both just loyal to a fault.  

  Which beget the question he was almost too embarrassed to ask even in hushed tones. “Am I?”

  Starsky’s smile vanished, his expression momentarily, unexpectedly grieved. Then his hand moved, fingers working their way under Hutch’s, and Hutch didn’t resist, letting the clasp become mutual. Starsky’s eyes cut through all the lingering shame and into his heart. “You ask me that one more time and I’m gonna have to shoot you,” he growled. “We’re pals, right? You didn’t leave me behind when I get shot, I’m there for you when you need me--that’s what it’s about, right? Anyway, in my book, anybody who goes through what you did and survives is worth it. And you, partner, are surviving.” He added a nudge of the hand for emphasis. 

  Oh, for that black-and-white view of the world. But somehow, Starsky always made it work. Hutch’s shoulders loosened, his frame unstiffening, his soul no longer threatening to curl up on itself. It still would in the future, but Starsky would be there to stubbornly untangle it again. “One day at a time,” Hutch ventured. 

  “Yup. Together.” 

  “Okay.” And he squeezed Starsky’s hand. It was something. In fact, considering all that had happened, it was a lot. 

  Starsky knew it, too, and grinned. “Okay.” His attention flicked elsewhere. “Uh, I’m gonna check on dinner.” He gave Hutch’s hand a stroke with his thumb and squeezed back before letting go to stand. “How ‘bout you call your folks while I finish up?”

  Hutch winced. “Starsky--” Speaking of stubborn...

  “You don’t have to tell ‘em anything you’re not ready for. Just...talk to them. I think you could use it right now.” 

  Hutch hesitated. They didn’t easily discount each other’s serious advice. “Maybe.” 

  “Fine. Then come and eat. I sent Ma that picture from the precinct picnic last month and she says you look too skinny.” 

  Hutch rolled his eyes as he gingerly swung his feet to the floor and sat up. “Your Ma would think a sumo wrestler was too skinny.” 

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think anyone’s gonna be confusing you with a samurai wrestler anytime soon,” Starsky shot back before turning away. 

  “Sumo.”

  “Whatever,” came the cheerful answer from the kitchen nook. The whole cottage was beginning to smell suspiciously of chicken pot pie, but Hutch didn’t think Starsky knew how to make it, nor that Hutch loved it. That was okay. The smell made his stomach growl, and he’d eat whatever his partner dished up and love it. The company alone made any meal bearable. 

  For now, a shower sounded heavenly--the smells of the drug houses still clung to him, once he thought about it, but dinner would be ready soon. Still, a change of clothes would help. He stood wearily, wincing as a few stretched muscles twinged, then went to rummage in the dresser for a clean t-shirt. 

  His eyes fell on the phone. 

  Hutch didn’t talk to his parents nearly as often as Starsky’s weekly calls to New York, but he knew they were always interested in him and he kept them informed as much as he could. But this...well, Starsky was right, he didn’t have to tell them both, or tell them that day. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to at least see if his mom was home. And if his dad wasn’t. Maybe...well, it wouldn’t hurt to try. 

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took a deep breath, picked up the receiver, and dialed. Starsky had already slipped outside the front door by the time the last number went around. 

  Maybe--that was all he was promising. But no matter what happened, at least Starsky would be there afterwards. He always was. Hutch’s eyes were still on his partner’s silhouette outside the window when his mother’s voice came on the phone. 

  He wouldn’t have believed it earlier that day, or five months ago. But...maybe things would work out okay, after all. 


End file.
